


Probably Maybe Not

by PastelWonder



Category: Millennium Trilogy - All Media Types, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-06-04 16:02:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6665107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PastelWonder/pseuds/PastelWonder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He named her dragon Níðhöggr shortly after she came to live with him. It seemed fitting after all the nights he stared into its eyes, imagining it chewing the rot out of her as it moved beneath her skin, behind her heart.</p><p>Your comments and kudos are appreciated muchly!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Probably Maybe Not

“Lisbeth, did you hear me?”

She glances up at him from her laptop screen. “Ja.”

Standing in the doorway of his kitchen, a dish towel slung over one shoulder, he holds his hands out at his sides and looks at her.

“Well?”

She gives him that frustratingly blank stare.

“Lisbeth-”

She goes back to her typing.

He watches her for a moment, then drags his fingers through his hair and goes back to making them breakfast, muttering to himself as he does.

__________________________________________________________________________

They take walks together in the afternoon, when she's not busy and it's not too cold.

Well, more like _marches,_ he thinks as he hurries to keep up with her pace.

“You still haven’t answered me.”

She digs her cigarettes out of her jacket pocket. Her head dips to catch one between her teeth as she shakes it loose from the pack.

Over the click of her lighter, he tells her quietly, “If you don’t want to go, say so. But say something.”

She lifts her head and exhales. Smoke streams out behind her, over her shoulder, and for the hundredth millionth time, he thinks she’s beautiful.

“No.”

The answer startles him. He doesn’t know why; it’s the one he’s been bracing for since the first time he asked her. Still, his chest pinches unpleasantly, and he can’t keep the cringe off his face as he nods, “Ok.”

Her hand darts between them, reaching up and squeezing his bicep briefly. Her eyes meet his out of the corner of hers.

He smiles, feeling the tightness in his chest melt into a dull ache.

________________________________________________________________________

“Mikael…”

Her hands fist in his hair.

“Uhn hah…”

He works her clit faster with his tongue, careful not to apply too much pressure. She’s more sensitive after each orgasm, and he’s already given her two.

“Mikael- uh-huhn, fuck…”

His fingers pump in time with the flick of his tongue, his hand coated in her slick to the wrist. More of it is smeared around his mouth. Mixed with his spit, it drips off his chin.

She bucks beneath him, the muscles in her belly contracting. Her thighs tremble.

He sucks her clit between his lips and runs the flat of his tongue back-and-forth under the hood.

Her fingers tighten as she tenses; his scalp tingles in that familiar way he’s decided he likes as she comes keening.

She’s a hot, shaking mess as he climbs over her, parting her legs wide to accommodate his hips. It’s only been in the last few months that she’ll let him top her, and only when he’s got her like this: relaxed, limp, spent.

He catches her eyes as he rubs the head of his cock up and down her slit. She sucks her tongue when he butts her clit, then nods.

He enters her in a slow, smooth motion.

Her head tips back on the pillow and her eyes close. She sighs.

He starts to move to a gentle rocking rhythm, taking time to stretch her around him. She’s already narrow, and her orgasms make her almost painfully tight.

Her cunt grips him like a vice when the head of his cock drags across her sweet spot.

He moans.

“Lisbeth.”

He presses his face into her neck. Warmth unfurls in his chest when she closes her eyes and lolls her head aside for him.

She doesn’t always tolerate his tenderness.

“Lisbeth, my love.” He covers her shoulder and the side of her neck in soft, open-mouthed kisses, drawing the taut skin into his mouth and sucking lightly.

She groans, her hips rising and falling beneath his to meet his easy pace thrust-for-thrust.

When her small, muscular arms wrap around him and hold him close, it feels like everything.

“Lisbeth, my love, my only love.”

Her hands stroke down his back and through his hair. He holds his breath and presses as deep as he can inside her as he comes, washed in aching pleasure.

Later, as they fall asleep together, he lies on his side behind her and traces the outline of her tattoo.

“Is Níðhöggr sleeping?” she asks, looking back at him over her shoulder. Only the twitch of one corner of her mouth betrays her amusement.

He named her dragon Níðhöggr shortly after she came to live with him. It seemed fitting after all the nights he stared into its eyes, imagining it chewing the rot out of her as it moved beneath her skin, behind her heart.

“Níðhöggr is jealous. Should I kiss him, too, you think?”

She snorts, turning her face back to her pillow.

He waits patiently until she wiggles, the tattoo ripping with the flex of her back.

“Kiss him, then,” she goads without looking back at him.

He does, right between its eyes. Then he wraps his arm around her waist and drags her back against him.

“Now Níðhöggr will sleep.”

She smiles; he sees the rise and curve of her cheek from over her shoulder.

“Do you think he dreams?” Her voice is getting smaller, softer.

He strokes his hand down the hard line of her abs, cupping the minute round of her belly. “Oh yes. Definitely.”

“About what?”

“You.” He kisses her shoulder.

There's a long lull, so long he thinks she’s fallen asleep. His eyes start to drift closed when he hears her whisper, “I dream about you.”

He smiles.

____________________________________________________________________________

“So she isn’t coming?”

He pauses his stirring to shrug. “No.”

His sister nods, arms folded. She pushes off from the doorway with her hip.

 _Why do this to yourself?_ her look says before she turns towards the living room.

_You don’t understand her._

“Who isn’t coming?”

He glances down at his niece.

Curiosity and adoration shine up at him.

“My friend, Lisbeth.”

“Oh no,” she frowns. She gives his arm a consolatory pat-pat.

He doubles-over, propping his hands on his knees with a mischievous smile. “Do you remember the secret I taught you? About making the perfect meatball?”

“We have to wet our fingers.” She holds out her hands to him, fingers splayed wide.

“Yes, precisely,” he nods, jabbing his finger through the air. “You have an excellent memory, Miss Olivia. I’m very impressed.”

Her face lights up.

As she dips her little fingers into a bowl of water, she asks conversationally, “Do you know the secret to happiness?”

“Happiness?” Surprised by that, he pauses filling a spoon with meatball mixture and looks at her.

She smiles up at him serenely and nods, “Yeah.”

He plops the spoonful of mixture into her small, waiting hands and scoops some more for himself. “I don’t think so.”

Her pretty face pinches with sadness. “Oh no. Are you sad, Uncle Micke?”

“No.” He concentrates on the mixture in his hands, searching for an answer. Finally, he tells her, “I don’t think there is a recipe for happiness, like there is for meatballs.”

She seems unsettled by that, frowning faintly as she watches him demonstrate how to roll the meatball small and tight.

They work side-by-side in companionable silence, until they have two parchment-lined baking sheets full of meatballs. His are perfectly round and compact, hers slightly looser and sloping to one side or the other.

They will be equally delicious, he assures her.

He hums quietly with the Christmas music, his younger niece Elsa banging sharply on her high chair as she supervises the whole affair. The kitchen is pleasantly warm from the oven, swathed in the smells of sauces simmering and the goose roasting in the oven.

“Love,” Olivia pipes up suddenly.

“Hm?”

Concentrating intently on her last meatball, she tells him, “I think the secret to happiness is love.”

She drops the ball onto the cookie sheet with an authoritative nod, _Yep._

Eyes crinkling in amusement, he smiles down at her. “Love, is it?”

She nods again. “I’m happy, and I love everybody.”

“Everybody, wow. I see.” He bends over until they were almost eye-level. “And do you love me, Miss Olivia?”

She pretends to think about it, watching him out of the corner of her eye.

It reminds him of Lisbeth. The sudden image of her in his mind makes his chest ache.

_Lisbeth._

“Mmm… I do.”

“You do love me?” He presses the heel of his hand to his heart, careful not to get meatball mix on his shirt as he mock-sags with relief. “Thank you.”

She stretches up on her tiptoes, her tiny hands on his shoulders for balance, and pecks his cheek.

___________________________________________________________________________

Later, as he drives back to Stockholm, he keeps picturing Olivia's smile.

____________________________________________________________________________

“Do you know what the secret to happiness is?”

Lisbeth looks over her naked shoulder at him. “Huh?”

He smirks. “I was asking Níðhöggr.”

“Oh,” she smirks back. “Excuse me, Kalle Blomkvist.”

“Níðhöggr, do you know what the secret to happiness is?”

Níðhöggr stares back at him solemnly.

“Well?” She purses her lips so she doesn't smile.

“Shh, he’s thinking.”

“Mm, is he?”

He ducks his head and presses his ear to her back, just beneath her shoulder blade. Her skin is still warm from their love making.

He can hear her heartbeat.

“Mm, mm-hm. Oh, yes I see.”

“You are too ridiculous.”

He smiles, rising to fold over her and kiss her mouth before he tells her, “Níðhöggr knows the secret to happiness.”

She snorts. “What is it then?”

“Love.”

The humor goes out of her eyes. She turns over onto her side.

He hovers above her, his breath high in his chest.

“Lisbeth, are you happy?”

_Lisbeth, do you love me?_

She curls a little more into herself and closes her eyes.

He sighs.

Lying beside her, his eyes wander over her tattoo. Its eyes seem to mock him in the darkness.

 _You betrayed me,_ he wants to tell it.

“Yes.”

Hope, sharp and electric, streaks through his gut and tingles in the tips of his fingers.

Her head lifts a little off the pillow, but she doesn’t look back as she tells him quickly, efficiently, “I’m happy, ok? Don’t ask me again. Good night.”

He smiles. “Good night, Lisbeth. I love you.”

The dragon smiles back.

**Author's Note:**

> I am in love with Michael Nyqvist (that man is just *gorgeous*, IMHO), but none of his films really inspire a fiction out of me. Until I saw the Swedish adaptations of Millennium, that is. If you haven't seen it, do - it's well worth the time investment.


End file.
